


There's No Protocol For This

by fremen_wali



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU, Brotp, Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Military Academy, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, SHIELD, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vibrator, Work In Progress, hints of D/s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fremen_wali/pseuds/fremen_wali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay so this little idea's been bouncing around in my head for a while and I've been slowly expanding it as I come up with things.</p><p>SHIELD Academy AU where Clint is a 26 year old SHIELD recruit going through their training academy to become an agent and Phil is the 40 year old (because I love age gaps between them) professor/senior Agent who falls for his student. Set pre-Avengers movie, obviously and is slightly based off of my rp ideas. </p><p>Thanks to Morgan, who gave it a quick once-over, but if you see any mistakes, they're mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint entered the lecture hall and scanned the room, his eyes quickly finding the perfect seat- halfway up the rows and on the right, closer to the wall. It gave him the best vantage point to see the front of the room, a majority of the other recruits if he swiveled his head a few inches to the left, and afforded him enough cover to not be obvious. Clint already felt self-conscious, like everyone could see, even though that was impossible. He sat down, thigh muscle twitching under his palm, the proximity of his hand to his dick, already semi-hard from anticipation, making him more nervous and more excited.  


Clint shifted the black spiral notebook he’d held under his arm to the little half-desk attached to his seat and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, little black spots bursting into his vision when he stared at the lights too long. Clint wondered, as the other recruits filled the other seats, how he’d gotten himself into this position. This was their first written exam. Most of their training had just been field work, practical work, and their examinations as well- more rapid-fire Q&A through comm units while they moved through training rooms than formal quizzes. Clint outshone the other agents-to-be in the field with his gun work alone. However, let him get behind a recurve bow with a quiver on his back and the higher ups, like their professor, started tossing around words like “exceptional” and “gifted”.

 

When it came to more academic pursuits, Clint struggled a little. Okay, a lot. So he started going to tutoring sessions, and Agent Coulson was more than happy to point out where Clint needed to improve and how. Clint doesn’t remember exactly when he realized that Phil’s -- _what kind of a name was Phil?_ \-- eyes were the most stunning grey-blue and on the rare occasions he broke his calm, contained exterior and laughed, they crinkled at the corners.

 

The first time Clint blew him, Phil gently cupped the back of Clint’s head with his hand and made a noise that Clint wanted to keep drawing out of him. Damn the consequences, Phil looked _really good_ in a suit.

 

Kisses stolen in Phil’s office led to dinners at restaurants Clint had never been inside of and eventually, to Phil’s bed, their clothes tossed haphazardly on the floor as they grappled at each other, desperate. Clint continued to perform well in field practice, leading his other team members efficiently and with a sense of humor that got him out of most punishments when he strayed from protocol every so often. Phil was a fair and unbiased instructor, giving Clint just as much shit as he gave out praise, and nothing came without good reason.

 

Clint snapped out of his reverie as the light chatter around him died down suddenly, as the door to the lecture hall opened and a man walked in carrying a manilla accordion folder full of paper. He set it on the podium at the front of the room then ducked out of sight in front of the podium’s control panel for a half-second to remotely switch on the projector above that showed a timer on the enormous screen on the wall, a countdown to the end of the test. The numbers sat still at 60:00 and Phil began dispersing the exams, giving bundles for the front row to pass backwards.

 

Phil addressed the class, his voice calm even as he projected so the back of the amphitheater-style room could hear him. It was impressive. Phil wasn’t a particularly tall man. He was balding with short, dark hair and dressed in tailored suits that hid his solidly muscled body- no desk jockey flab on him. To the untrained eye, Phil appeared unassuming, quiet. Phil worked in subtleties and those that had been around him for a while or had seen him in the field knew what all he was really capable of.  


He stood at the front of the room, center, his eyes finding and boring into each of the recruits’ in turn. When his and Clint’s locked, Clint felt a shiver go up his spine. Phil’s thin lips curled up at the corners in a small smile.  


    “Welcome to your first in-class examination," he announced. "You have one hour, so use it wisely, though it shouldn’t take you that long. Don’t even think about attempting to cheat,” he said mildly, eyes laughing. “Court martials aren’t as fun as they sound.” There were a few chuckles but even more uncomfortable shifting. Papers rustled and all of Clint’s senses were on high alert. He took the test the person two rows ahead of him passed back.  


“Just focus, and try not to get distracted,” Phil said, looking directly at Clint again.

 

Clint shot back a cheeky grin, spinning his pencil in his fingers.

 

"Begin," Phil said, pressing a button on a remote control and as the numbers on the screen moved from 60:00 to 59:59, 59:58 and steadily falling. Clint simultaneously felt the small bullet vibrator taped to the underside of his cock, just below the head, turn on as well. He lurched a little in his seat, the low thrumming sending his heart into overdrive. He could swear he saw Phil's smile widen as the man stood at the podium.

 

There was the sound of a couple hundred pencils scratching at paper filling the space around Clint, and he tried, he really did, to focus on _that_ noise instead of the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and the tiny, low buzzing below the wood of his desk. Clint gripped his pencil hard enough that he almost felt a crack and relaxed his hand, setting it down on top of the test.  


Test.  


Clint forced himself to look down at his paper and at the first question: _What is the protocol weapon for a mission classified A-2021?_   
  
_Fuck_ , he thought. He was rock hard and the timer was at 59:43. How had it only been that long? Every second felt like an eternity, the pleasure he felt edging closer to pain. It was too much. Clint focused on his breathing. He could do this.

 

He picked up his pencil again, adding his own writing noises to the room. He made it halfway down the page, ten questions in, when the vibrator suddenly stopped and Clint felt his whole body relax all at once. He could have cried with relief. In his pants, his cock gave a twitch. Clint shifted in his seat, readjusting as best he could without touching himself.

 

Clint worked quickly, answering each question and moving on to the next, eyes diligently on his paper. Halfway through the fifth page, the vibrator started up again, and Clint had to bite back a moaned “Nooo..” He sunk his teeth into his lower lip, looking up with narrowed eyebrows towards Phil at the front of the room who, of course, didn’t look any different. He wasn’t even looking back at Clint, the bastard. At 43:20, the vibrations got stronger, Phil fiddling with the remote in his hands, as they rested casually on top of the podium. Clint curled in a little on himself, hunched over the desk. _Shit_. Clint’s thoughts were nowhere near the test material, instead wishing that he could be allowed to touch himself, because the vibrations felt so _good_ but just were not enough. When he knew he wasn’t about to come, Clint sat up a little and took up the pencil again, checking the clock before he started writing again.

 

At 37:00, the first exams had been handed in and recruits were starting to leave the lecture hall. Clint was nearly done, in a manner of speaking. He was on the next to last page and sweating hard. Phil had been alternating the strength of the bullet vibrator every so often with periods of blissful, but maddening, stillness. Clint could feel the patch of precome soaking through the front of his tented pants and he was sure that he looked odd, nervous and intense. His balls felt huge, swollen and ready for him to just _come already, dammit Phil._

 

He wasn’t going to beg.

 

There were still people in the room, one on their way down the gently sloped stairs to turn in their exam when Phil turned the little bullet up all the way, causing Clint to just let go, coming with a choked off gasp and gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles went as white as his vision.

The vibrator stopped and Clint felt his face go red, reaching under the desk and between his legs to pull damp fabric away from himself. Phil accepted the last person’s exam, leaving just Clint and him alone. The timer read 35:46 and Phil stopped it there with the press of a button.

 

Clint stayed seated for a few long seconds, his legs spread as far as they could in the chair, thighs quivering from his orgasm. He caught his breath and stood up, shaky for a second before straightening and walking, completed test in hand, to the front of the room. He felt sticky, and embarrassed, but thrilled that it had all gone off without anyone noticing.

 

“Twenty-five minutes,” Phil commented mildly, taking Clint’s test from him and putting it in the stack with the others. “Not bad. How do you think you did?”

 

Clint gave him a pointed look, no real heat behind it. “Excellently, as always, sir,” Clint replied, only the slightest waver in his confident tone. Phil’s eyes looked over Clint’s body hungrily. Kinky fucker loved when Clint called him ‘sir’, and Clint abused that power whenever he could. “Still some things you need to learn about control, though, aren’t there, Barton?” Phil asked, the hunger bleeding into his voice as he moved around the podium to face Clint. Clint could see his erection pressing against the fabric of his slacks. His mouth watered. “Bet there’s a lot you could teach me, huh _sir_?” Clint asked teasingly, standing with one hip cocked, his grin inviting Phil to make the next move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha have a late night heart to heart. Also, Clint's sappier than he'd ever admit out loud, but Natasha already knew that.

“Sit,” Natasha orders him firmly, patting the edge of her bed with three taps of the flat of her hand. She scooted back, sitting cross-legged with her back to the dark grey brick wall that her bed sat against. Unlike Clint, who was in deep purple sweats and a white tee, Natasha always wore the standard issue uniform sweatpants for lounging, regulation black tank top offsetting the pale white of her shoulders and the fiery red of her hair that just brushed the tops of them. She waited silently for Clint to get settled on the bed, mimicking her position, her eyes alight with barely concealed interest. No matter how well it might work on other people, she could never hide everything from him- they’d known each other too long and too well.  

 

“Spill,” she says, a smile beginning to form on her face. “I know you want to, so just go ahead. Did you fail your ‘test’?” she teased.

 

Clint grinned, unable to help himself. “I’m still a little sore, it’s actually hard to sit like this,” he admitted, shifting a little on the bed as proof. He mimed sudden understanding, his mouth forming a small, surprised ‘oh’. “Oh the _exam_. Yeah, I definitely passed that,” he said, laughing when she took her pillow and smacked him over the head with it.

 

“It was.. incredible, Nat,” Clint began when the pillow was safely back behind her. “It’s such a rush, knowing that he was in charge of my body, even across the room. I’ve never come so hard before,” he said, unashamed. Natasha nodded, looking impressed. “I never would have guessed it from Coulson,” she said. Suddenly, her face twisted in an amused grimace. “I’m never going to feel the same about that lecture hall. Remind me to never sit on your side of the room,” she said, letting her head roll back, exposing her neck, her eyes still intently watching him.

 

“I like Coulson,” Natasha announced after a few seconds of silence, like she had only just decided. “He’s a good instructor, a very good agent, and I trust him.” Clint raised his eyebrows, staying quiet. Natasha used the ‘T’ word for Phil. After what she’d told him about her childhood, Clint would have thought that word was all but dead to her. To his knowledge, she’d only confessed to trusting two other people besides Clint.  
  


“Does he make you happy?” she asked him suddenly, turning the full force of her gaze back on him, serious and intense. Clint considered the question.  
  


He wasn’t planning on _marrying_ the guy or anything, but it was more than just mind-blowing hookups in classrooms and after hours. There were plenty of times where Clint would sneak to his office through the ventilation system and literally drop in for coffee or just to sit while Phil worked through the piles of paperwork on his desk. Clint liked hearing Phil talk, about anything, but especially when he was lecturing- going through slides of surveillance techniques and weapons technology with confident ease. Phil would text him when he was bored just to ask what he was up to and if they were both free, they'd go out for lunch. Clint was sure that if they could forget the whole student-teacher-breach-of-ethics thing, they would be considered dating. The thought made Clint smile and he had his answer.  
  


“Yeah, yeah he does, Nat.”  
  


Her expression warmed and she shoved at his shoulder affectionately. “милый.”

Clint shoved her back. “быть тихой,” he said, twisting his mouth in a half smile.  
  


“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him, agent or no. I’m not afraid enough of SHIELD to not do something drastic,” Natasha threatened, only half-joking. Clint raised his hands defensively. “What have I told you about death threats in this place? At least let us get out of the ‘recruit’ stage, please,” he pleaded with her. He looked at her bedside clock. “Dude, it’s nearly two in the morning. Don’t you have a fitness test tomorrow?” he asked as he started backing off of her bed and onto the cold tile floor, bare feet silent as he stepped. She gave him a look as if to say that he should know how easily she could wipe the floor with everyone tomorrow on no sleep at all, but conceded and stood up after him.  
  


“Be quick and quiet getting back to your dorm hall,” she warned, reaching up to give him a hug. Clint put his arms around her tiny frame and squeezed her briefly, like he always did. “I don’t entirely believe that Agent Sitwell was lying about the seek and destroy bots that patrol the halls,” she said, smiling one last time at him as they let go and Clint opened the door.

  
“When have I ever gotten caught?” he whispered back, slipping into the hallway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a lot of positive feedback on the first chapter, so I'm adding more to this verse as I go. Thank you all for your support and if you have ideas, please let me know. I've got a Bucky chapter planned for later. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a little competition between friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could write Bucky better. I'm sorry. I just thought this was cute. In regards to canon, I'm revealing their histories a little at a time. As you can see, I've put his metal arm in, but details on that are to come later, as will details about Tasha and Clint as well. Trust me. I slightly know what I'm doing here. Thank you again, to all your lovely comments.

Clint awoke to a tiny, shuffling noise in his room. His heart jumped a beat and he lay silently, carefully keeping his breathing steady and slow while he oriented the sound around him. Out of his peripheral, in the dim light, he could clearly see the outline of a figure crouched low to the ground, all in black, hair curling a bit where it lay against his forehead-- “Bucky?” Clint said groggily as he sat up in bed, leaning back on his elbows and frowning at his friend as he froze mid-reach for Clint’s face.

 

“Damn it all,” Bucky said, standing fluidly and closing the gap to lightly slap Clint’s cheek.

 

“What time is it?” asked Clint, turning his head to look at the standard issue alarm clock on his bedside table. Black plastic blaring red lights. 5:00AM. Of course it was. Ever since Bucky had left SHIELD’s Medical ward two years ago, new bionic left arm installed and about a thousand hours of therapy, he hadn’t slept more than two or three hours a night, he told Clint. Apparently Bucky had decided to use his time to bug Clint.

 

“You’re interrupting my beauty sleep,” Clint complained, rolling over and shoving his face into his pillow.

 

“I don’t think it’s doing much anyway,” Bucky quipped, patting the back of Clint’s head with his right hand. Clint flailed out and slapped at Bucky’s leg, missing, giving up and groaning loudly.

 

“Fuck off.” He changed his mind and lifted his head to look up at his friend. “What’s the plan for today?”

 

Bucky pointed a finger at Clint. “You and I are scheduled for the range with the rest, kid, so I propose a showdown. First to tear a new center in the target, and all.” Bucky looked thoughtful, pursing his lips. “I guess you can bring your fancy-shmancy bow, ‘f you want.”

 

“That’s awful nice of you, Buck,” Clint said with a shit-eating grin, already relishing the idea of a proper competition between them. Clint may have made a name for himself with a Hoyt Buffalo Recurve, but when it came to long range riflery, nobody came close to touching James Buchanan Barnes. It was one of the things that the two men had bonded over when they met in the Academy’s cafeteria, arguing the finer points of choosing green beans versus spinach and really, wasn’t it all the same when it came from a can? Clint respected the hell out of the guy before even meeting him, just from his reputation, but now Clint had a second best friend and a partner in arms.

 

“Just two things,” Clint began, holding two fingers up to demonstrate, shaking them in front of Bucky. “One,” he put down one finger. “You’re only a year older than me, so don’t call me ‘kid’,” he frowned at Bucky.

 

“Noted, squirt,” Bucky replied easily. Clint ignored it and held up the second finger.

 

“Two, it’s five in the morning, so unless we’re breaking in to get a head start before the rest of our class, I’ll see you at breakfast in two hours. Just give me the two hours, Bucky, I’m begging you. I just got back from Tasha’s and--”

 

“Gossip time for you gals?” Bucky interrupted.

 

“Yes, actually,” Clint said without missing a beat, continuing, “and I’m very tired so feel free to sit and twiddle your thumbs, but I’m going to try to sleep s’more.” Clint finished his rant by plopping his face back down into the pillow. Bucky stood at Clint’s bedside, just watching, smug look on his face.

 

After twenty seconds, Clint sat up fully, grumpily flinging the sheets that had pooled around his waist to the ground. “You bastard,” he said half-heartedly, and got up to brush his teeth while Bucky waited for him.

 

\---

 

They were lucky the cafeteria workers liked them. After inhaling their protein-filled breakfasts of eggs, bacon, oatmeal, fried potatoes, bacon, and coffee, Clint and Bucky made their way to the range, just as the rest of the students were getting to the cafeteria.

 

They swiped their identification cards to get inside, the doors opening into an enormously long concrete bunker-type room. Stalls were lined up all down the front end of the room and at the far end, 500 yards away, were the heavy duty full-body targets made of five inch thick layers of memory foam and wood, each with an automatic replacement system. It was like a very deadly bowling alley. Clint breathed in the smell of dust and cool, filtered air and smiled. To the right of the door was a row of metal lockers, and Clint and Bucky found their respective ones, choosing their weapons.

 

Clint lovingly stroked the upper limb of his recurve with one gloved hand, and was about to whisper sweet nothings to it before Bucky cleared his throat. “I can accept your forfeit and find the two of you a room,” he offered, hoisting his bag of ammo on his back beside his favorite high powered rifle.

“Don’t worry baby, we’ll finish this later,” Clint purred to the bow as they turned to walk to side-by-side stalls, prepping their stations.

 

“Say, twenty shots?” Bucky asked Clint as he loaded his rifle. Clint adjusted his quiver and pulled out the first arrow, nocking it and letting it rest along his finger.

 

“What, first one to finish and with the most kill shots wins?” Clint asked, getting into his stance- body facing Bucky, hips squared, chest raised and shoulders back. His left arm was extended, holding the bow, the arrow slowly drawn back with his right hand. Clint closed one eye and stuck out his tongue, looking down the lane at the target before relaxing his grip, the string falling slack again, arrow on the rest. He grinned at Bucky and whistled the first few bars from “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly”.

 

Bucky nodded. “Go,” he said, and turned away from Clint to face his own lane, raising his rifle and taking the first shot. The report echoed loudly and Clint could see the center of Bucky’s target had a hole in the chest.

 

Clint readjusted his stance, taking in a deep breath, feeling it fill his lungs and move through his body. He felt good, sure of himself. Clint raised his bow and drew back, sighting his target at the end of the lane before releasing, the bolt flying through the air and embedding itself directly through the target’s forehead. He pulled another arrow out of his quiver and drew back again, letting fly and putting that one right beside the first. Bucky’s shots next to him kept a steady beat and Clint let it match his heartbeat as he fired rapidly, one after the other, until he was finished and he set the bow down on the stall’s steel table in front of him.

 

Bucky had put down his rifle as well, safety back on and was staring down the lanes at both of their targets, comparing.

“I win,” Clint said easily.

“Like hell you do,” Bucky replied. Clint hit a button on his stall wall and reached around to hit Bucky’s on his own wall and their targets moved forward, each lane floor a conveyor belt installed for just this kind of close-up inspection. The target dummies stopped a few yards away from their stalls and Clint turned to Bucky, holding a hand in the direction of the target as if to say _See? I fucking told you so._

 

While Bucky had torn a pretty decent hole in the chest of his target, going for center mass with a few shots gone through the head for good measure, all of Clint’s arrows were sticking out of the head and neck of his target, three of the arrowheads so close together that the fletchings had bundled together in a burst of purple and white feathers where the target’s eye would be.

 

“To my knowledge, plenty of folks’ve walked away from a gunshot, but not many from an arrow to the eye,” Clint said smugly. Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was smiling and he clapped his metal hand on Clint’s shoulder.

 

“Alright, Robin Hood, fine. I-O-U one drink at a time of your choosing,” Bucky said good-naturedly. “Reset before the class gets here?”

“What, want them to watch me beat your ass again?” Clint joked, already moving to pluck the arrows out of his target.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint goes to Phil to try to make sense of what they are. All turns out better than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still looking for a beta, if anyone's interested. Like, help me fine-tune my grand ideas into something specific. 
> 
> Thank you, for reading this far.
> 
> ((what can I say? I've got a weakness for office blowjobs))

Clint rapped on the office door with the side of his fist, two firm knocks, then took a half step back and waited, hands behind his back in a lazy parade rest, fingertips gripping a white paper bag. Phil opened the door and was already turning to head back to his desk, Clint following behind. Clint toed the door shut with his boot before crossing the floor to the large wooden desk, dropping the white bag on top of the papers in Phil’s wire ‘Outgoing’ box. Phil raised an eyebrow at it curiously, shuffling the last of the graded exams and stacking them neatly. Phil reached out and pulled down one side of the bag, peeking inside. “What’s this for?” he asked.

 

Clint sat sideways on Phil’s desk, one foot on the ground and leaning heavily on the opposite hip. Phil’s office was cluttered. That is to say that his usually immaculate desk was littered with stacks of papers, all stapled in the left hand corners, each stack for one of Phil’s classes. There was a coffee mug, dark ring stained around the inside. His wastepaper basket was full to nearly overflowing. Phil looked like he’d been grading exams for hours, fueled only by coffee and his rage towards comma splices and run-on sentences in essays. He looked exhausted, which meant that SHIELD’s Director was pulling him away from his professorial duties more frequently.

 

Phil was one of ten agents in the Academy that was doing double shifts, splitting their time between teaching here on campus-- this isolated smattering of buildings and training fields surrounded by upper New York state forests-- and handling junior agents’ missions all over the world. He’d only felt it once, the day they’d pulled him out of the circus and flew him to the recruitment building to sign up for the Academy, but Clint knew jet lag was a bitch.

 

“Bribe,” Clint answered easily, reaching out to reposition an errant exam, putting it in line with the others. He flashed a quick grin at Phil, watching the other man’s expression lighten when he pulled the pastries out of the bag.

 

“I figured if two bear claws didn’t get me an ‘A’, what would?” Clint joked. Phil took a hearty bite out of one, the other sitting on top of the now sideways bag, flattening the white paper and creating a makeshift plate. He closed his eyes gratefully as he ate, until Clint’s words broke through his distracted haze. Phil snorted, chewing and swallowing before replying.

 

“You got a _ninety-seven_ on the exam,” he enunciated, smiling like he knew Clint wasn’t really worried about his grade.

 

“Would have been a perfect score if my pencil hadn’t slipped when you bumped it up from a steady 6 to an 11,” Clint mumbled, eyes narrowing accusingly. Phil’s mouth, lips pressed together, twisted a little in response like he were trying not to smile. Clint suddenly didn’t know what he wanted that to mean.

 

Phil had picked up the other pastry and was carefully ripping it into sections to eat with the tips of his fingers, not a single crumb dropped on his perfectly tailored suit. Clint watched as Phil sucked the last of the sugar glaze off of the edge of his thumb.

 

“You’re not here to discuss grades, and you’ve turned in your range timesheets for the week,” Phil said lightly, trailing off like he was figuring out why Clint was there, but wanted to hear it from Clint himself. He wasn’t pushing him out, wasn’t telling him to go, and Clint took that as a good sign.

 

“What, can’t come see my boyfriend in between classes?” Clint asked, trying to maintain his easy, joking tone and slipping a little-- a bit of the uncertainty he felt bleeding through, something he knew Phil would pick up on immediately.

 

He was terrified, he realized. They’d never made anything official, had never seen a reason to. The title sounded juvenile in his mouth, nothing close to what they were. Phil was his professor, and when Clint graduated from the Academy and became an agent of SHIELD, Phil would most likely be his handler as well, since Clint’s antics had all but scared off everyone else.

 

Phil also smiled when Clint brought him food because he knew that Phil forgot to eat when he was busy. Phil fucked him roughly sometimes, quickies in abandoned classrooms with his belt buckle scraping against Clint’s lower back; Clint never felt better than when he could hear Phil Coulson fall apart behind him. Phil watched him with kind eyes, and touched him, and made Clint feel like maybe he could have something for himself for once.

 

Clint held his breath as he sat on the edge of Phil’s desk, waiting. _Cover. Take it back quickly_. Clint’s panicked mind shouted at him. His hands itched for his bow, some string to pluck.

 

Phil sat back a little in his chair, looking up at Clint on his desk with a soft look in his eyes that Clint couldn’t read. It wasn’t pity though, so Clint let out a small whoosh of breath through his nostrils.

 

“Boyfriend, huh?” Phil asked softly, carefully. He watched Phil’s emotions inch across his face, from mild surprise in his eyebrows to a slow-spreading pleased look in his eyes and corners of his mouth. “I prefer the term ‘partner’,” Phil said finally, reaching out across his desk to lay his hand out, palm up, towards Clint’s. “I’m forty years old, Clint. ‘Boyfriend’ makes me feel like a dirty old man,” he joked, squeezing a little when Clint took his hand. Phil’s palm was warm against his own and he was sure Phil could feel the rapid beat of his pulse there.

 

“Is forty years old too old to date a twenty-six year old?” Clint asked. “I don’t think so,” Phil answered honestly. “I thought we were doing pretty well so far.” He chuckled. “I suppose I should have made my intentions more clear.” Phil’s eyes sharpened, eagerly meeting Clint’s own. “I intend to be with you,” he said. “For as long as you want me to be. I will teach you, support you, care for you. Is this acceptable?” Clint nodded his head, warmth spreading through him at the vehemency of Phil’s words. He let go of Phil’s hand and stood up, walking around the desk to stand in front of Phil in his chair.

 

“Come here,” Phil said gently, urging Clint closer and down. Clint followed him, settling on his knees in between Phil’s, tipping his head back when Phil leaned in to kiss him. Phil’s hand was in his hair and his mouth led Clint’s into a deeper kiss, and Clint never felt safer. Clint felt himself start to harden when he brazenly sucked Phil’s bottom lip in and gave it a quick bite, Phil groaning low in his throat. Clint pulled back enough to reach between them and move his hands to Phil’s pants, undoing the belt and button and zipper in a few easy movements. He slid his hand inside and hummed, pleased at what he felt there.

 

“Who said you weren’t a dirty old man?” Clint teased, glint in his eye as he gripped Phil’s erection, dragging his hand up and down it slowly. “Oh my god, Clint,” Phil said, only half protesting, his body’s reactions giving him away. “We were having a conversation-” Phil reminded him, shutting his mouth on a low hum when Clint kissed the glans of his cock, lips wrapping around him and sliding down.

 

Clint’s tongue swam with Phil’s flavor, the smell of him- clean and the musk of arousal. He looked up and saw Phil’s face, the awed flush and half-parted lips, and a surge of pride went through him, up his spine and curled in his gut pleasantly. He tightened the seal of his lips and hollowed his cheeks, sucking Phil in deeper. Clint pulled off slowly, mouth gleaming wet and eyes never leaving Phil’s. “We still _are_ having a conversation,” Clint replied. His tongue chased the bead of salty fluid that dripped down Phil’s shaft and onto his hand, still slowly working him. “I just wanted to make sure that my ‘serious’ was your ‘serious’,” he began, using his mouth every few words. Phil sat very still, noticeably keeping his hips from bucking up. That would have to change.

 

“I intend to be with you too,” Clint said intensely, moving his hand out of the way to suck Phil deep enough into his throat that his nose pressed in between the open teeth of his zipper, buried in dark hairs. Phil’s hand came up, finally, to touch the back of Clint’s head. Clint moved eagerly, faster, and soon Phil was meeting his bobbing with his own stilted thrusts upward. Clint moved his hands to Phil’s thighs, lightly gripping the fabric of his suit slacks and opening his throat, encouraging Phil to move more, take more. After a few more thrusts, Phil gently lifted Clint off of him. As Clint cracked his sore jaw, he watched Phil take himself in hand, fisting his cock quickly, trying to bring himself off.

 

“God, Clint. You want this, don’t you? I’m going to give it to you,” Phil said, his voice thicker. His other hand went to grip Clint’s chin, raising it up and giving Clint a little squeeze. At the signal, Clint opened his mouth, tongue flat, waiting. With a groan, Phil started to come, most of it landing in Clint’s mouth, on his chin. Clint shoved a hand into his own pants, jerking himself off furiously until he came, sticky and hot, all over his fingers. He was making this into a habit, he just knew it. He pulled his hand back up and held it out, inspecting it.

  
Clint felt over-warm, messy, and with Phil’s release sitting on his tongue, entirely _his_. Phil tucked his softening cock back into his slacks, putting himself back together until he looked like nothing had happened. “Good, Clint,” Phil murmured, looking at him affectionately, his hand resting on Clint’s cheek, thumb pushing a stray drop of semen into Clint’s mouth, feeding him. Clint swallowed around the thumb, feeling himself flush a little at the praise. Phil adjusted in his chair and pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket, taking Clint’s hand and wiping it down, cleaning him off. Phil kissed him and Clint fell into it, eyes closing.


End file.
